


Quality Time at Quiet Cove

by MenPlayingCricket (VitaeLampada)



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom James T. Kirk, Bottom Spock (Star Trek), Chubby James T. Kirk, Couples Resort, Drunk Sex, Drunk Spock (Star Trek), Established Relationship, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Help to Relax, Hurt Spock (Star Trek), M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Mission, Reciprocation, Shore Leave, Tenderness, soothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-08-19 17:34:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 13,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16539116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VitaeLampada/pseuds/MenPlayingCricket
Summary: Jim Kirk knows Spock can't let himself relax the way humans can.  Over time the captain has developed a method to slowly disengage his First Officer from the tensions of their work, offer him a safe place to lose control and get into a frame of mind which is ready to enjoy shore leave.This was written with the TOS crew in mind.  But I've taken my usual liberties with canon and set the story in Yorktown, so I don't see why readers can't decide for themselves which Enterprise crew are living this story.





	1. Everything We Need

“Enterprise,” the voice came through their shipwide channel, “this is Approach Control.   Docking procedures are complete and your relief crew are now boarding.  Welcome to Yorktown.”

Jim released the grip of both hands on his command chair.  At long last.

“Thank you Approach Control,” he said.

He watched Hikaru Sulu stretch his arms over his head and roll the tension out of his neck.  Then Jim stood, straightened his shirt and addressed them all.

“Ladies and gentlemen, since this ship is now parked I don’t see any need for helmsmen to stay back until relief arrives.  Mr. Chekov, Mr. Sulu – get out and enjoy our shore leave.  You are relieved of duty.”

“Are we ever!” Pavel agreed.

“Thank you, sir,” Hikaru said.

“Lieutenant Uhura …,” Kirk turned to face her.

“Comms are on standby, sir,” she replied.

“Leave them.  Spock will activate your station for your replacement.”

“Commander Spock is carrying an injury, sir.”

He carries a lot of things, Jim thought.

What he said to Uhura was, “He’ll get more treatment.”

She gave him a dubious look, but got up from her place without putting her thoughts into words.

Jim also relieved the cadet she was training and the weapons officer.  Those five crew members lingered a few minutes on the bridge, saying goodbyes and trying to work out if anyone would be staying close to anyone else, the soonest they could get together and at what venue.  It felt less like the command hub of a starship and more like a hotel lobby.

Hotel.  Kirk picked up his PADD from the arm of his chair and checked the reservation details again.

Relief crew arrived just as the relieved crew left.  Kirk shook hands with Ganzorig, his opposite number, and Hamilton his second-in-command.  He walked them round the different workstations to review the final settings.  Jim made sure they left the Science post until last.

“This must be your famous First Officer,” Ganzorig remarked.

Spock could have passed for an android.  No one would guess he was fresh from Sick Bay, in defiance of Doctor McCoy’s snarled orders.  He’d given more than any other crewman during their five years in space.  But he couldn’t just let go of himself, the way Bones wished he would, the way humans did.  God knew what work the half Vulcan had invented for himself to do that kept him looking so absorbed. 

When it was clear Ganzorig wasn’t going to get any reaction to his compliment, Jim stepped in.

“Commander Spock and I have an ongoing research project that is nearing its funding deadline,” he said to the relief captain.  “We had hoped to finish it before we arrived but an … unfortunate … encounter with the Jem’Hadar forced us into combat two days ago.”

“We heard the news,” Hamilton said.  “You lost eighteen good people.”

Nearly nineteen, Jim thought.

“But we won’t detain you,” Kirk said, and then put on his voice of authority.  “Commander Spock --,”

Spock did not look away from his displays, but replied, “Captain.”

“We need to divert our operations to Yorktown with immediate effect.  I’ve had a case packed for you with the necessary equipment.  You will hand over your station and communications to Commander Hamilton and proceed directly to Transporter Room One.”

“Aye Captain.”

Spock made just enough eye contact with the replacement command team to work out which man was the new First Officer before he resumed his mechanoid motions.  Jim told Captain Ganzorig he planned to disembark himself shortly – he just needed to check on a couple of things in Sick Bay and Engineering.

***

Bones huffed and puffed and finally agreed to give Jim what he asked for.

“I could do it myself in ten minutes,” the Doctor complained.

“So I’ll take, what, maybe thirty?” Jim asked.  “There’s no hurry.”

Bones scowled, but with less vehemence because he now knew more about what Jim had planned.

“How soon can I check your work?” McCoy asked.

“Twenty-four hours.”

“No galavanting around in the meantime --,”

“I promise you that Spock won’t need to walk more than a dozen steps, if that.”

The Doctor gave him a single, tight nod.

***

Scotty contacted him by communicator while Jim was in his quarters, packing.

“We cracked it, Captain.”

Jim dropped his jaw and his neatly folded pajamas.

“You did?”

“We got past their security shields.  Mr. Spock travelled first class, sir.”

“You’re a star, Scotty.”

“I’m grateful, sir, that’s what I am.  He saved my life.”

“How long since he beamed across?”

“Twelve minutes ago.”

***

Jim left the Enterprise on foot, using the starboard neck walkway.  That connected him with the dock conduits and he came out into the massive white cathedral of Cornwallis Transit Hub.  His PADD navigator directed him to the hoverport and the platform for his booked flight. 

Destination: Quiet Cove.  Jim chose the place for three reasons -- the name, the fact that it was half a globe away from the rest of the crew, and the promotional vids, which seemed to market the resort as a destination for couples wanting quality time together.

A cab took him from Quiet Cove’s hoverport to the hotel.  To ensure there were no suspicions raised by Scotty’s security breach, the chief engineer’s hack had also rewritten the check-in data, so that when the receptionist brought up Jim’s reservation she smiled and said, “Your partner has already arrived, sir, and I see you’ve asked for him not to be disturbed.  Is there anything you’d like us to bring to your suite now?”

“No,” Jim replied, “thank you.  We have everything we need.”


	2. Silver Sugar Tongs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, sixteen hits, three kudos and a bookmark in the first two hours has completely stunned me. Here I was wondering whether I needed to do a promotion on Tumblr or something.  
> Thank you, kind readers.  
> If you know a friend who might enjoy this story, please give them directions and invite them over. I've just seen the hits go up to twenty-three now -- maybe I need to go out and get party food, eh?

Very nice suite, Jim said to himself, as he closed the door behind him.

There were no lights on, but enough outdoor light filtered through the curtains.  Jim noted the generous dimensions of the living room, the understated décor, fresh flowers on the coffee table.  The big, black sofa had an organic curve and was suspended from a framework that allowed it to tilt and rock.

Book a Vulcan concert to play through that expansive vid wall, Jim thought, open a bottle of wine and order room service.  That would constitute a fantastic night in.

But not tonight.

Jim removed his uniform boots and socks and put them in the closet next to the door.  Then he picked up his suitcase and walked barefoot over the carpet, through the living room and down the hallway.  Wherever they stayed on shore leave, Jim always specified a need for two ensuite kingsize bedrooms.  And as per their usual practice, Spock indicated which one he had chosen by leaving a personal possession outside the door.

As part of their ‘research equipment’, Jim left his First Officer pre-recorded orders that the object on this occasion must be Spock’s PADD.  It was one way to ensure that Spock would not be tempted to use his handheld computer.

Jim turned into his own room, admired the décor again while he activated the concealed storage along one wall and stowed his luggage away.  He stripped off his uniform and threw that into the darkest corner behind the suitcase.  Then he lifted the complimentary toiletry basket off its shelf and spent several minutes squinting at labels, opening bottles and holding them under his nose.

He picked out what he wanted and walked naked into his ensuite.

In thirty-six minutes he was shaved, showered, conditioned, moisturised, blow dried, perfumed.  A moment’s consideration was given to the bathrobe supplied by the hotel, because it was newer than the one Jim had packed.  And the fabric felt as soft as stroking a cat.  He shook it out, tied it round his body and evaluated what he saw in the mirror.

“Good,” he said to his reflection.  “Now we’d better keep our promise to Bones, and check on our patient.”

He entered Spock’s bedroom with a smile, as the heat rushed forward and enveloped him.  A quick tour told Jim that all his instructions had been carried out to the letter.  Spock had also showered and changed, though his uniform was neatly folded _and_ placed inside the hotel laundry net.  The ‘research equipment’ case sat open on one of the armchairs.  Jim helped himself to three things – the protoplaser, the bottle of arnica oil and one sixty gram bar of chocolate.

He glanced at the bed where Spock lay on his back, his robe so expansive on either side of his body that it virtually blacked out the cream coloured comforter.  His hands were clasped just under his chin.  Jim tiptoed across to the side nearest the Vulcan’s pillowed head and, as gently as he could, set each of his chosen items down on the bedside table.

Then he carefully sat himself on the edge of the mattress.

Spock would have perceived his proximity.  But a meditative trance was like a deep sea dive; the diver should not resurface too quickly.  While Jim waited for Spock to gradually alter his state of consciousness, he turned over the bar of chocolate, unpicked the glued seam along the wrapper and pulled the paper free.

 _Betazoid Criollo cocoa solids 80%, plant-based fats, semi-sweet,_ the label read.

They pretty much stuck with that brand now.  Over time they’d worked out just how much.  Jim considered using the phrase ‘by trial and error’, but changed his mind.  He didn’t believe any of it had been a mistake.

He smoothed the paper flat on the table and started to peel off the foil around the chocolate itself.  He broke off three dark squares and lined them up on the wrapper.  Then he realised he’d forgotten one very important item from the case, and left the bed.  When he returned, Spock’s eyes were open.

“Captain,” he said.

Jim smiled at the formality, but didn’t try to change anything.

“Commander,” he replied softly.  “I see that all preparations have been carried out according to my orders.”

“They have.”

“And are you ready to proceed?”

Spock unclasped his hands, straightened his arms and placed them on the mattress.

“Ready, captain.”

Jim held up his hand, which had the sugar tongs.

“I almost forgot these,” he confessed.  “You’d think it would be habit by now.”

The tongs had belonged to his mother, one small part of a dinner set he inherited that was waiting in storage for the day he might need or want fine porcelain or flatware.  Maybe when he retired – he often thought about fixing up a place with cabinets in the dining room, invite people round for dinner.  He’d have to put Spock in charge of it all, of course, because only Spock managed to keep this one piece of silver regularly polished.

“Perhaps,” Spock suggested, “I should attempt to overcome my cultural aversion to being fed by hand.”

Jim was half-listening.  He could never pick up anything with tongs alone; he always needed to use his fingers.

“Truth be told,” Jim said, bobbing the tongs up and down to see whether the tiny feet had a good grip on the single square of chocolate, “I think I would miss this part.”

“May I ask why?”

Jim moved his hand horizontally, so that the tongs were positioned an inch above Spock’s mouth.  He would be able to smell that cocoa.

“I don’t know,” Jim said, as he watched Spock swallow the extra saliva produced by the anticipation.  “Doing it this way seems … somehow … more _sacred.”_

Jim gently lowered the sugar tongs until their little payload rested on Spock’s lips.

“A toast to shore leave,” Jim said, “eat up.”


	3. The Loss of Arizmendi

Jim wasn’t a diary writer.  Yes, he kept up his captain’s log, but that was a requirement and not a choice.  He never wrote down any of the crazy things he did when he was younger. 

Though having considered the implications, he decided that was just as well.

Spock, on the other hand, was the kind of individual who might have preserved a record with detailed observations of their private experiments with each other’s hearts and minds and bodies. 

Or would do if he were sober.

“Don’t chew,” Jim told him.  “Just let it melt.”

He put the sugar tongs on the bedside table and rubbed the imprint marks out of his fingers.  He laid that hand on Spock’s shoulder – no squeezing or caressing – just company.  A placebo effect could be observed from the first moments after his bondmate took the chocolate.  A long but barely audible breath, like a surrender, would be exhaled.  Spock sometimes closed his eyes while his tongue moved slowly back and forth inside his mouth, creating little hollows under each cheekbone.

After the first swallow, it wouldn’t be long before a faint flush appeared on the bridge of Spock’s nose and eartips.  His eyes would blink more frequently.  This time he sighed again, a gusty one.

The bond between them, the background hum in their minds that was so normal Jim almost forgot it was there, started to change its default settings.  Jim imagined it like a locked door, one for which he had security clearance, but would never dream of stepping through without an agreed appointment.  Spock likewise.  Chocolate interfered with the door’s operations.  Jim felt the panel slowly slide and then jam, leaving a gap at the bottom and only at the bottom.

Spock swallowed again, sighed again.  Then he shivered.

Jim pressed against his shoulder.  “What are you thinking?”

Through the opening in their bond, a seeping heaviness.  Spock let a skin memory leak through – the feeling of Ensign Arizmendi’s pulse rate slowing down, because she’d lost too much blood, and how quickly her extremities grew cold before the Enterprise could locate the landing party and beam them back.  And then came the horror of wiping away what he presumed was his own blood from the laceration to his thigh, only to look down and see red human tissue wet on his hands.

“We need to make some more repairs on that wound,” Jim told him.  “You left Sick Bay a little early.”

“Lieutenant Figes died in the bed next to mine,” Spock said. 

The increased blinking, Jim realised, had been leading to something.  Spock’s eyelashes were wet.  He wept silently, looking a little dismayed because he couldn’t stop it by squeezing his eyes shut.  Jim massaged his shoulder.

“There we go,” he said to his First Officer, “that’s the work your human colleagues got done right away.  I saw a lot of tears in the corridors.”

A sober Spock would have been defiant, in an unemotional sort of way, made some condescending statement to the effect that logic could eliminate the need for pretty much anything.  Human crew members who didn’t know their Commander well assumed he was insulting them.  He wasn’t.  He was lecturing himself.

Spock under the influence of ten grams of eighty percent cocoa solids reminded Jim of a child, with bright colour on his cheeks and emotions that sat very near the surface.

“Tissues,” Jim said suddenly.  “Man, I am not a good nurse.”

Spock whimpered, “Jim…,” when his weight lifted off the mattress.  Jim had to give him a reassuring pat and say he was only going as far as the bathroom, where there was a fitted dispenser.  He was there and back in maybe ten seconds.

“Okay,” he mopped up the tears that hadn’t fallen on the pillow and then left his hand against Spock’s face where he could feel one of his meld points thrumming.

“You’re a mess right now,” Jim said jokingly.  He could feel a second wave of sorrow rising up.

“Arizmendi--,” Spock battled with a tremor in this chest, “—borrowed … borrowed a book from me.”

“What, you mean the antique kind?”

Spock nodded.

“What sort of book?” Jim asked.

Spock soaked another tissue trying to get it out.  “A compilation --,” laboured intake of air, “-- of Vulcan mythology.”

Jim frowned thoughtfully.  “Didn’t think she would --,”

Spock interrupted forcefully.  “She had been teaching herself the language by --,” swallow, “by accessing the Starfleet Academy tutorials.”

“Okay, okay,” Jim was compulsively blotting the corners of Spock’s eyes, though they were not producing any new tears.  He waited, watched.  After a few minutes he concluded that the worst must have passed.

But it was always a good idea to be certain.  “So,” he asked Spock, “why did you want me to know all that?”

Spock turned his head on the pillow.  His voice was steady.  “Please,” he said, “would you ask Captain Ganzorig to override the security protocols on her quarters, and remove that book before her personal effects are packed to send to her next of kin?”

“You could get it yourself.”

“No,” Spock said.  “I could not.”

Jim nodded.  “Sure,” he said, “sure.”

“And would you also --,”

Jim second guessed him, “Invent some reason why you didn’t find the time?”

Spock heaved one last, concluding sigh.

“Thank you.”

They had a spell of listening to each other breathe.  Spock had two pretty blush spots on his cheeks, like a doll.  Jim made a mental note to comment on the hotel’s feedback form about the quality of their sound proofing.  The silence was perfect, and healing.

They might have stayed like that for twenty, maybe thirty minutes, before Spock asked if he could have his second square of chocolate.


	4. Rush

“Only if you let me run a protoplaser over your injury,” Jim said.  “Bones made me promise.”

“You are not medically qualified,” Spock replied.

“I don’t need to be.”

Jim picked up the instrument and tried to remember.

“Which way do I hold this again?”

Spock had to reach up and indicate with gestures that Jim should turn the device one hundred and eighty degrees, and flip it over.

“Honestly,” Jim knew he was going to have a tough time closing this deal now.  “McCoy transferred tricorder data from scans of your healthy tissues.  The protoplaser has its own expertise – it doesn’t need mine.”

Spock raised an eyebrow.

“Still sober enough to doubt me, then,” Jim said.

“Yes,” Spock answered.

“Okay.”

He dropped the surgical instrument on the mattress and held up his hands in surrender.  Then he slapped his knees and tried to decide what they should do.

“It, uh, it might be better if we postpone our ‘project’ until the doctor can look at you.”

Spock did not retract his sceptical eyebrow.

“Otherwise – you know, he’ll figure out what we’ve been up to and I won’t hear the end --,”

“Jim,” Spock interrupted.  “I may doubt you, but I trust Doctor McCoy.  He would not give you the protoplaser unless he was certain you would do me more good than harm.”

“Oh.”

“Please,” his First Officer said, “you may proceed.”

“Which do you want first,” Jim asked, “treatment or chocolate?”

“Chocolate.”

Jim rolled his eyes and reached for the sugar tongs.

“I suppose it’ll provide pain relief, in case I lacerate your leg all over again.”

“Or it may improve your confidence.  Very likely I will be too inebriated to criticise your efforts.”

Jim grinned.

“Alright then.”

Spock forgot the admonition not to chew; the second square of chocolate went down quickly.  It gave him a rush that opened his eyes wide.  The door of their mental bond felt as though it was melting from the top down.  Jim got a tickle from his partner’s euphoria.  Spock stretched and expressed his pleasure with smacked lips and a satisfied hum.

“All good?” Jim asked, as if he needed to.

Spock smiled -- the most beautiful sight in the galaxy.  “Fine,” he said.

The protoplaser did its work in just fifteen minutes, gave a cheerful beep and display reading to tell Jim that cellular repair had reached optimal level and sent a report to McCoy.  He had a feeling he was going to get top marks from his CMO tomorrow.

Spock was beaming at him like he was angel.  And if the bond was anything to go by, chocolate had put Jim into soft focus and given him a glow.

“You’re shipshape now, Mr. Spock,” he said, and powered down the medical device.

“Shipshape,” Spock repeated.  Jim shook his head, opened the bedside table drawer and stowed the protoplaser away.

“Shipshape,” Spock said again, rolling in his direction.  “Ship …,”

“No more talking about ships,” Jim admonished, “or anything to do with missions or science --,”

Spock’s hands discovered the hotel dressing gown, and its texture piqued his curiosity.  He started stroking it, by default also stroking Jim’s knee.

“Oh man ...,”

The bond was a two way street.  Jim no sooner reacted to that touch than Spock received the signal and realised exactly what his hand was doing.  He looked sheepish, but hopeful.  

“What are we going to do with you now, eh?” Jim asked.

Spock pushed himself away, rolled onto his back again.

“Kiss me.”


	5. Before We Both Fall Down

“Kiss you?” Jim teased.  “If you want me to kiss you so much, how come you moved away?”

Spock could be downright coquettish when he wanted to be.  He hunched his shoulders and turned his head aside, but after a few seconds could not resist looking back to check whether he was still the object of Jim’s attention.

His hand began to pat the mattress beside him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jim asked.

The hand beat faster.

“Are you … inviting me into your bed, Mr. Spock?”

All he got for an answer was a low, rumbling laugh.  Jim stood up, put his hands behind his back and assumed a grave expression, like he was the one with Vulcan blood and Vulcan discipline.

“I need you to be serious,” he said. 

The bond told Jim that Spock’s brain was making halting attempts to recall how that was done.  It tried to resettle the muscles in his face so they could prove that he was still sober.  They overcompensated with buckled eyebrows and a sad-clown frown.

Jim bent over that silly face and said, sotto-voice, “If you are suggesting we engage in physical intimacy, Mr. Spock, we need to be better prepared.”

Spock nodded slowly.  Too slowly.

Jim tried again.  “We need a few more items from our case.”

“--get them,” Spock replied.

His mattress hand stopped drumming and planted itself.  He gave a little grunt while heaving his body up so he was sitting.  Then he stopped.

“Whoa,” Jim said.  The bond was now a blown out door, with a dizzy heat haze radiating through both their heads.  Jim tried to shake off the disorientation.

“Hang on,” he said, seeing Spock sledge himself closer to the opposite side of the bed.

Spock flapped a dismissive hand.  “Fine,” he lilted, “…be fine.”

Jim rolled his eyes as Spock stood like a man with rubber for bones and had to pause when his head listed sideways and threatened to overthrow his tenuous balance.  He managed to pull down the hem of his robe that lagged behind on the mattress.  The steps he took were short and he wouldn’t lift his feet off the carpet.

Jim followed.  Not too close, because Spock got tetchy about being supervised.  Sure enough, they went right past the open case on the armchair.  Spock shuffled into his ensuite, stopped at the counter where his sonic dentabit stood in its dock.  Jim watched the reflection in the mirror – a half Vulcan who picked up his own toothbrush, looked baffled as to how it ended up there, then could not figure out how to put it back properly.

So adorable.

Jim crept up from behind and wrapped his arms around Spock’s waist.

“Whatcha doing, beautiful?”

“How does it work?” Spock asked, holding out the dentabit.

“Like this.”

Jim kept one arm where it was, used the other to place the dentabit correctly onto the four prongs in the base unit that kept it charged.  Spock’s hand played understudy, fingers hovering close and imitating the motions of Jim’s fingers, and not quite accidentally brushed against them …

“Oh man --,”

The first time Spock ‘kissed’ him Vulcan-style, sensation came so strong, so sudden.  Jim had flinched, Spock had fled the room and they lost two months renegotiating enough trust to try again.  Not everything had improved since then. Jim still flinched, but Spock learned to keep the contact light and quick.  And if he put a lot of these kisses close together his lover’s hand would jitter but Jim would not be able to move away if he wanted to.

“Spock …,”

“ _Ashayam.”_

“Spock --,”

Would it feel similar, trying to talk while having an electric current run through you?

“Spock, better get back to bed, yeah?”

And then it was just too good.  Emergency blood rushed to those important capillaries -- Jim groaned.

“Before we both fall down, okay?”

“I am standing,” Spock protested.  But he stopped his hand moving, and gave Jim a short respite.

“You won’t be once you’ve had your last piece of chocolate,” Jim said, then had an idea.  “Unless you don’t want it, of course.”


	6. Stroke for Stroke

Agreement was reached – they would return to bed.  Jim gave Spock a gentle push against his lower back to encourage him to move first.  A little help was needed when his Vulcan lover misjudged his approach to the ensuite door, and huffed in consternation because the wall in front of him did not respond to the proximity sensors.

Jim caught the sleeve of his robe and pulled him about two steps to the left, where the door was waiting open.

“I am very drunk,” Spock said.

“Oh,” Jim said dismissively, squeezing Spock’s arm, “no more than we figured you would be.”

Jim guided him out of the bathroom and made sure they stopped at the armchair. 

“You’ll be fine carrying these.”

He needed to say that.  As Jim bent over to pick up the last things they needed from the case, he heard Spock make a noise, a quiet but lascivious growl.  The next thing he knew his ass was being fondled.  It proved just how long it had been since they last … well, the finger kisses alone gave Jim a hard on.  It would be better to occupy Spock’s hands with something else.

And then they made the last, shuffling steps to their destination.  Spock, wary of dropping anything Jim had given him, let himself be steered, turned and parked in the space between the mattress and bedside table, for extra support. 

“Now,” Jim said, determined to get back in control, “you give me the body butter.”

Spock squinted at the two containers he held and, surprisingly, managed to pick the right one.  Jim thanked him and set that on the bedside table.

“That’s for later,” he said.  “You can put the lubricant on the pillows.”

Strictly speaking, they liked to tuck it in the space between their pillows, but Spock had already demonstrated that his aim was off.

“And the last thing,” Jim said, “is for me.”

It was a cheesy set up.  The remote was small; Spock had it gripped in his right hand.  That hand rose, obediently, and the digits uncurled to reveal the device on his upturned palm.  But as Jim leaned forward to catch the tiny array of controls, he also closed his lips around the tip of Spock’s index finger.

Spock gave a short, surprised squeak.  Jim moved his tongue forward and lathed it over the first joint.  That elicited more involuntary noises, and Spock started to inhale through his mouth.  His pupils enlarged; his hand trembled. 

“Jim …, Jim!!”

Jim heard his name spoken like a dying man’s last words, then in a burst when he sucked hard for as long as his jaw muscles could stand it.  When he let go, Spock’s breathing was shallow and quick.

“A good start?” he asked.

“Jim …,” Spock whimpered, and tried to push the wet finger back where it had been.

“Umm, we could.  But you like something else even better, don’t you?”

One of the wonderful discoveries about Vulcan hands had been the erogenous zone in the centre of Spock’s palm.  Even humans were ticklish there.  A single, playful lick against those nerve endings and Spock made a strangled “Awwww …,”

And the half Vulcan gave himself away.  His free hand groped its way down the front of his own robe and pressed itself against the erection Jim had been instrumental in creating.

“Maybe we should undress now?” Jim asked.

Spock managed a weak nod.  Jim let him go.  He set the remote on the bedside table and untied his hotel bathrobe with a sigh of relief.  Naked was the best way to be when a Vulcan has been messing with temperature settings.  He threw the garment away without looking where it went.

And then he got distracted.  Because Spock wasn’t known for his patience once he was sexually aroused.  Jim watched him greedily lick one hand in the exact spot where it had been licked, while at the same clutching his robe between his legs and grinding his pelvis against the resistance of that grip.

Their bond was nothing now but a ruin without doors or windows or much in the way of walls.  Jim had been getting every ache of lust, every sharp surge of blood and pleasure he gave Spock and Spock gave himself.

His own cock was rock hard, but dry.   He crawled on his hands and knees across the mattress, found the lube and when he had slicked himself generously he lay on his back, facing the bedside table to enjoy a bit of voyeurism while trying to match his bondmate stroke for stroke.


	7. Monster Under the Bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vulcan terms used in this chapter:
> 
> Ha - yes

Once, when Bones had indulged in a little too much bourbon, he asked Jim, “What’s it like, sharing minds …,”

Jim apologised to Spock later.  The doctor was sharing that bourbon, and it made Jim less discreet than he ought to have been.

“Bones, I’m telling you – you get bonus orgasms – yours and his.”

It was bonus time in Quiet Cove.

Spock slammed his head into the wall behind him and bellowed, ““ _Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha_!! _”_

Jim’s own hand stopped moving -- what flared through him from the bond always fooled his brain into thinking he was ejaculating.  Spock’s climaxes were like blizzards; Jim called them ‘white outs’.  They were too big for a human head to handle.  Jim would see lights in front of his eyes and something like subspace static would block his ears.

He had no idea what his body did during that time.  Now and again he got leg cramp.

But he would have tolerated a lot worse.  He could not name another experience that made him feel so … powerful.  More powerful than a bit of muscle pain, a feeling that he could do anything, say anything, was entitled to anything.

It followed that Spock was in a similar frame of mind.  The first orgasm was a key  -- it turned inside Spock's head and switched him to a new setting.  He travelled back thousands of years to the time when Vulcans were deadly as foes and a little dangerous as lovers.  And then the two of them, pumped up and ready for a fight or a fuck, would end up doing both.

Jim’s vision recovered just in time to see Spock looming over his naked, prone body.  The Vulcan swayed slightly, but that didn’t make him a pushover.  His pupils were blown out black and glittering.  The reek from the front of his soaked robe was his own musk; the fabric stuck to his body and to his ramrod _lok._

He spoke between heavy breaths, through clenched teeth.

_"Adun!”_

“What?” Jim shot back.

“You deny me.”

Spock pointed at Jim’s forgotten erection, with Jim’s hand relaxed but still wrapped around it.  Jim lifted his leg and gave the Vulcan a shove.

“You want to talk about denial?  I told you to get undressed.  Why should I give you what you won’t let me see?”

A chocolate-buzzed Spock needed a few seconds to regain his equilibrium after being pushed.

“The bond … sent you pleasure,” he growled.

“Don’t give me that excuse,” Jim said.  “You wear clothes like a shield, as if I have no right to what you've got under them.”

“… Shield,” Spock snarled in derision.  “This _lok_ could tear through cloth to get inside you.”

Yeah, Jim thought, it probably could.  He toyed with the idea of daring Spock to try.  But he was honestly sick of that goddamn black robe.  His lube covered hand shot up, grabbed Spock by the collar and pulled hard.

Spock made a noise that was lust audible.  A little drool escaped from the corner of his mouth.

Jim tugged the garment once for each word he spoke.

“You … get … me … when … you … take … this … OFF!!”

Spock bared his teeth and roared.  One slap freed him from Jim’s irritating hand.  Two of his own fingers hooked inside the collar of his clothes and ripped the fastenings apart with a stroke.  It opened the robe as far as his pectorals.

“Is that it?” Jim demanded.  “I’m not putting out for a patch of chest hair.”

“Not finished!” Spock shouted.  With both hands he split the robe right down to its hem, flung the frayed panels aside and shrugged.  The garment fell off his back.

In spite his simmering state of mind, the delicious sound of tearing fabric and the delicious sight of Vulcan manhood made Jim grin.  But the smile soon faltered.  Spock bent over, steadying himself against the bed and crouched, getting lower and lower until eventually Jim could only see a pair of maniacal dark eyes glowering at him over the horizon line of the mattress.

After a few seconds they disappeared too. 

Jim waited, tense.  It didn’t make any difference how old this game was, or that Jim knew what would happen next.  The outside light in Quiet Cove was fading; the bedroom contained more shadows.  The stupidest thing he ever did was let Spock sample his childhood memories and discover that there once existed a little boy James with a mortal fear of the monster who lived under his bed.

He felt a sharp pull on the comforter.

“Jeez …, Spock.”

Where, exactly, was that moving sound?  Low register, a cross between growl and hum.

“Spock, c’mon, you win.”

Then he spotted the fingers, stretching and curling over the cliff edge of the mattress like some deadly arachnid creeping onto  --

“Stop!” Jim yelled.

The hand dropped away.  But the growling continued.

“Whatever you want, _adun,_ ” he added.  “We’ll do that.  What do you want?”

The monster under his bed replied, “I want you to come because of me.”

“Get up here then.  Nicely.”

Spock gave him the heebies, even so, the way his dark features crested over the foot of the bed and his body stayed low as he climbed onto the mattress and slunk between Jim’s splayed legs.  He stopped with his face hovering inches from the red human cock which had subsided with fright.  Jim felt warm breaths roll like waves over very sensitive skin.

“Oh man …,”

He let his head fall back on the pillow and clenched his ass to raise himself a little closer to his lover's face.  The warm breaths felt warmer.  The bond lapped against him like bath water as Spock took pity on the flaccid penis and tried to make up his mind whether to kiss, suck or lick and where to start.

“Nicely,” Jim said, itching from the inside out, “doesn’t apply now.  Do it like you did yourself.  I need warp speed, Mr. Spock.”

He said something after that, very loud, because his fallen erection was caught and pulled by tractor beam inside a heated vacuum with teeth and pumped until it exploded.


	8. Pillows

Having been blown to pieces, metaphorically speaking, Jim regained his perceptions of reality bit by bit.

Somehow his head had worked its way underneath his pillow, so he couldn’t see a thing.  He went with that for a few seconds. He focussed on his interior world, the bodily sensations in the aftermath of Spock’s superlative blow job.  There was one hammering heart – the crash and undertow of coursing blood was loud in Jim’s ears.  The pulse points at his throat were jumping through his skin.

Location of his limbs: one hand and one foot felt like they were suspended in air. Jim wriggled the fingers of the hand and they tapped against the bedside table.

Location of his bondmate: unchanged, except that Spock’s mouth was now against his stomach, sucking and slurping the pillow of flesh that, in spite Jim’s best efforts, was starting to cover his abdominal muscles.  Doctor McCoy would poke it sharply during every medical examination and insist it must go.

Through their bond, Jim felt a jolt.  Spock’s teeth gently collected a roll of that beginner’s paunch and held it, while the half Vulcan made one of his gutteral, pre-Surak noises meant to warn off any competition from trying to steal what belonged to him.

“Spock,” Jim moved the pillow off his face and lifted his head.  “Are you seriously getting possessive about my fat?”

Their eyes met.  Spock released his mouthful of Jim’s belly but let his tongue out like a dog and bathed the places he had bitten.  The bond contained a weird mixture of affection, ticklish fantasies about how Jim might look and feel with _more_ fat, combined with a desire to break the accusing fingers of the Chief Medical Officer.

Jim reached down and stroked Spock’s hair.

“You’re forgetting that Doctor McCoy put your leg back together,” he said gently. 

Briefly, the bond grappled with this conflict of interest.  But not long.  Drunk Spock didn’t have much interest in analysis; the immediate appeal of what he could sense mattered more than any abstract consideration.  He abandoned his vendetta against McCoy and gave himself over to erotic appreciation of his bondmate’s wet and bite marked bulge.

“Wow,” Jim shook his head.  “You still surprise me sometimes.”

He tickled the point of Spock’s left ear, and was rewarded.  Spock leaned into the touch and smiled.

Jim admonished him.  “While I’m a commissioned officer, you’ll have to make do with fantasies.  But it's a family trait -- all my uncles got rounder as they got older.  My sluggish metabolism is going to get the upper hand eventually, so … it’s comforting to know that you’ll be waiting eagerly for the demise of slim Jim.”

A burst of delight came across the bond.  Spock rose off the mattress and hand walked over Jim’s spread legs, lining up his body with the one below him before he eased himself down and gave his _adun_ the first human kiss of the evening.

Jim gave thanks with a murmur.  The hand he kept on Spock’s head grabbed some hair while their tongues met like lovers and writhed together.  His other hand, the one close to the bedside table, crawled up onto the top of that piece of furniture and hunted for the tiny remote.  Spock’s new position had placed the tip of his hot and undiminished erection against Jim’s balls.  Something would need to be done.

Whatever else might be said about Orions and their interactions with Federation worlds, some of their inventions were damn useful.  The remote control operated Jim’s _dakkii –_ a gossamer sheath no thicker than a PADD stylus when it was powered down.  Jim inserted it easily while he showered.  Before leaving the controls on the bedside table, he switched the remote to its lowest setting.  The _dakkii_ had gradually expanded and extended his opening, and fit itself like a second skin against the muscle wall.  

Now he located and pressed the button to set off internal lubrication.

All this without breaking the kiss.  Jim felt a bit smug about that.  Spock, who had appeared to be fully occupied with making love by mouth, had actually been noting all his bondmate’s movements and emotions and shifted so his _lok_ moved down and ready.

Jim sent him instructions telepathically.    _–Just a few more seconds, gorgeous.  Then it’s all yours.-_

Bones had been the first to learn about the device (via medical journals, or so he claimed) and set about hunting one down.  Jim made a joke when it was presented to him.  He didn’t perceive the doctor’s foresight until four months later, when Spock reminded them all how quickly seven years could pass.  The _dakkii_ proved to be a godsend.

When it was time, Jim moved both his hands underneath his thighs and pulled his knees up.  Ideally, kissing would pause for some adjustment of bodies.  But tonight their lips and tongues parted and met, parted and met, reluctant to surrender their connection even briefly to secure one lower down.  Truth be told, Jim liked it better when Spock chose not to look where he was going.  His chocolate addled brain would fumble a few attempts at penetration – either his _lok_ would prod Jim in many other pleasant places, or slip along his perineum and over his balls to nudge his own cock out of repose.

It made success a delicious surprise.  When Spock scored a direct hit they groaned into each other’s mouths; their bond broadcast the simultaneous friction of entering and being entered.  Jim closed his eyes.  It was all going to overwhelm him soon; the _dakkii_ meant Spock could be as rough as he wanted, and he definitely wanted.  Jim felt himself bounce on the mattress, and the pillow fell onto his face a second time.          


	9. Body Butter

Another blizzard.

Jim felt integral to the blinding, blasting whiteness, like Spock had somehow dissolved him.  Pleasure hummed all around like an expertly maintained warp coil and seemed pure, not a function of biochemistry but an ideal.  Or maybe a transfiguration.  Jim felt weightless, ethereal.

Yet even on shore leave, with all the time in the world, there came a point where he wanted to have his body back.

He thought about his hands, a simple action like curling his fingers into his palm.  The image was clear, but merely an image.  He still could not feel anything.

He tried talking and that didn’t happen either.  He thought himself calling out, “Spock.”

A whispered thought replied.  “Jim.”

There was one more nerve-shivering flurry  -- most likely a Vulcan cock enjoying its final spasm against Jim’s prostate.  It disoriented him, so that he forgot to keep thinking.

“Jim,” the voice in his thoughts persisted.  “I love you.”

Then finally, Jim saw the blizzard winds calming down, the white break up into pieces.

Maybe he used his tongue and throat and lips to answer.

“What?”

It was ridiculously thrilling to feel the weight of his own head, and Spock’s breathless voice blowing the words into his ear.

“I love you.”

Their orgasmic weather subsided to light snowfall.  Jim could see the hair on the back of Spock’s neck.  He could do with a trim.

Croaking, Jim asked, “Is that what you say to your other boyfriends?”

Spock huffed, lifted his head, but didn’t give Jim a convincing glower of indignation. 

“I do not have other boyfriends.”

“Oww …,”

Suddenly, Jim received the full package of all his displaced bodily sensations.  His hands were still locked behind his knees, his left foot had pins and needles and his thigh muscles screamed.

Before he could articulate “I need”, Spock lifted his weight off and canted backwards to settle in a kneeling position.  Jim lowered and straightened his legs gradually, accompanying the agony with several moans and hisses.  

“Ahh …,” he said, when he was flat on the mattress again.  “You know, Spock, you might want to consider getting yourself a couple more.  You keep wiping out my poor human brain like this, and one day I might not make it back to reality.  You’ll need a replacement.”

Spock’s reaction to that comment was mild amusement and satisfaction -- he knew better than to take it seriously.  Jim sensed he was more worried about other things: keeping his balance as he crawled backwards off the bed and stood, remembering what normally happened next. 

“Jim?”

“Body butter,” Jim replied.  “Big blue tub on the bedside table.”

“Blue--,”

Spock took three surprisingly coordinated steps followed by one where his right leg crossed immediately in front of his left and hobbled him.

“Jim …,”

“Lean on the mattress a second.”

Spock leaned for the better part of two minutes, while he tried to make and execute a decision that would lift one foot without putting it down in the same place again.

“Jim!”

“It’s okay, just take your time.  You’ll get there.”

He got there by accident, not intention, lurched forward and caught the edge of the bedside table.

“Choc’lt …,”

Jim used his captain’s voice.  “No more chocolate right now, Mr. Spock.  Body butter, blue tub.”

“Blue,” Spock said, and the bond glowed after he grabbed the container and tested the strength of the bedframe by sitting down with minimal control over the speed of his descent or force of impact.

“Welcome back,” Jim patted his arm.

Spock wanted him to take charge of the tub, open it and remember where he put the lid.  It was only fair; Spock’s hands were going to be busy.  Three Vulcan fingers scooped out a generous mound of the emulsion and wiped themselves clean on the top of Jim’s thigh.

And then that hand went to work.  Warm butter was spread over all skin from knee to groin.  Fingers dug deep into the soreness over and over until the pain evaporated.

Traffic in their bond travelled in a circuit the same way Spock skated round and round over the knots of tension to pull them apart.  Chocolate did not make massage less effective, because Spock was guided by that feedback loop, almost hypnotised by it.  It even directed his hand back to the tub when more butter was needed for the other leg.

Jim luxuriated in the touch and adored the face.  Spock’s eyes would look dreamy; his lashes would flutter and he became a soft target for romantic cliché, especially when it came with a wallop of sentimental affection through their private psychic channel.

“Do you have any idea how damn beautiful you are?” Jim asked.

Spock blushed vividly and grinned.  His fingers broke rhythm and squeezed.

“You are the best thing that ever happened to me.  The day we decide to finish our commissions, you and I are going to have a big wedding.  I mean _big_ – if we invite every member of Starfleet to attend they can confirm what they already suspect but are too polite to say.  Then we’ll go house hunting.  Somewhere rural, maybe Arizona or New Mexico because the climate will suit you.  Or how about we build a place from scratch?  Then you could have your own study and a soundproofed room for meditation.  We’d get Scotty to install a transporter platform, so we could teach in San Francisco during the day and when classes finish we beam back to our cosy desert retreat.”

By the time he’d finished Spock was twitchy with happiness and Jim’s thighs felt like warm jelly.  He breathed in and made his stomach stick out.

“And you’ll have extra Jim … most likely.”

Cue for more butter on Jim’s belly, and a sigh from Spock as he gently kneaded the softness and imagined the titillating indulgence of having more adipose tissue than he could grip with two hands.


	10. What the Body Remembers

“Turn over.”

Spock did not do sweet talk.  He learned to use the word ‘love’ because, over time, he came to realise the effect it had on Jim.  But whether he meant what humans meant by it?  Spock did not have standard emotions – one could hardly expect such feelings to be accurately described with Standard terms.

Jim did as he was told, surrendered the open tub of body butter to his bondmate and rolled onto his stomach.  He compacted one of the pillows, tucked it under his chin and then drew his arms up and around it.

“Ready,” he replied.

All along his back, pores had already tightened and fine hairs stood straight.

‘Never and always touching’ – the first time Jim heard the phrase it sounded like nonsense.  Then later, at their bonding (and for weeks after) it was difficult to think of anything else.  They seemed connected at cellular level.  Spock understood the stages of Jim’s sleep, which foods he digested better.  He once rescheduled all the captain’s diary commitments after sensing a movement of white blood cells to Jim’s nose and throat, the earliest reaction to a cold virus.

Spock was an extrasensory Romeo.  He was deeply committed to the correct alignment of Jim’s spine and the condition of all connecting muscles.  And Jim had been formulating a theory, which he intended to share at some point during their shore leave.  Somehow, it seemed the bond could deposit, store and retrieve memories from parts of Jim's body.  People might think he was talking about an ordinary thing, how a touch could evoke thoughts and feelings from the past.  But this was much stronger.

Spock started by placing the tips of his fingers along Jim’s hairline.  Then both index fingers drove side by side up and down the centre of his scalp until Jim felt there were grooves in his skull.  After that, the pads of Spock’s thumbs would work the levator muscles under Jim’s ears, left the skin feeling warm.

When he shifted his hands and pinched the top edge of Jim’s trapezius, where neck met shoulder, that’s when it happened.  Like a vivid flashback or virtual reality, Jim suddenly found himself in a different bed.

The sheets and pillowcase were Starfleet issue, and he recognised his possessions arranged on the headboard shelf.  The Enterprise computer was hailing him, but Jim could not move.  One hundred and five kilograms of half Vulcan had him pinned to the mattress, and all over again he experienced the fresh shock as teeth sank into that same trapezius muscle and bit down so hard Jim had to bite his own pillow in turn to stifle a yell.

It might have been the third or fourth time they had sex.  Spock was under orders not to run away or leave the bed, regardless of what emotions were exchanged through their skin contact.  Jim recalled what he got – a blood injection flush of heat, and the paroxysm of a predator who had seized prey, desperate to hold on, to have this, to keep it this time.

And because Spock stayed put, he was able to appreciate Jim’s full reaction.  Surprise -- yes, pain and a little confusion – lasting a few seconds.  Then Jim blurted out, “Wow.”  One of his hands groped its way along the mattress until it collided with Spock’s knee.  And he tried (pitiful human attempt) to communicate how much he wanted.

Long story short, intimate activity resumed.  Jim got a matching set of dental impressions on either side of his neck which were concealed under his uniform shirt.  On the bridge, he found he could disengage Spock from his train of thought just by hunching his shoulders.

That was the end of the flashback.  The mental veil lifted as abruptly as it had covered him.  Jim found he was grinning into the hotel pillow.

The bond told him Spock was smiling too.

While he had been lost in that earlier reality, Vulcan hands had been keeping themselves busy.  They now pushed out from the centre of his spine in both directions, following the curve of dorsal muscles that stretched around Jim’s body.  That didn’t provoke one memory, but a jumble.

On the occasions when they shared the same bed (never enough), Spock needed to be close.  If Jim lay on his back he would have Spock like a heavy comforter piled up against him, with an arm or leg or both draped wantonly over Jim’s nakedness.  If he turned over onto his side, Spock would become a ‘big spoon’.  His arm would travel along the plain of skin that covered Jim’s dorsals and pull their bodies together in a tight embrace.

If it happened that they did not have an early morning shift, their humid proximity combined with a good night’s sleep meant one or both of them woke up hard.  Spock would rut gently against whatever part of Jim was closest.  His hand would go hunting for Jim’s cock.

Spock’s hands now were on his ass.  They kneaded his cheeks like bread, heeled his pelvis deep into the mattress and pulled him back.  Six or seven or … more of those and a delicious ache started to build again.

Spock knew it, of course.  Along with a happy spine, he usually aimed to get a horny husband in the bargain.  He rocked Jim from side to side, pinched and patted those two dough balls and let the bond crackle with his lust for flesh that bulged.  Once he cheated – helped himself to a little more butter and fingered it onto the soft, wrinkled glimpse of Jim’s balls showing between his parted thighs.

“Spock -- !  Spock …, Spock,” Jim sputtered.  “Whoa.”

With his face pressed into the pillow, Jim lifted himself off the mattress just enough so he could roll onto his back without risking further stimulation.  And then he took a few seconds to pull things back a bit, concentrate on breathing, though he could see his upright cock, red as sunburn.  Spock, fixated on the same sight, lathered his hand with a stupid amount of butter and leaned in close.

Through their bond, he asked Jim for permission to touch.

“Umm,” Jim said, “better idea.  Let’s swap places.”

It helped take the erotic temperature down a few degrees.  Jim got off the bed; it gave Spock room to flop and slither while keeping that well greased hand held high.  The containers of lubricant and butter needed to be located and returned to the bedside table before they were kicked onto the carpet.  Then it was Jim’s turn to sit on the mattress and admire the decadent, blushing sprawl that, a few hours ago, had been his android First Officer.

“I think it’s time you were treated to your last piece of chocolate,” Jim suggested.


	11. Fug

The bond suggested Spock was all in favour of more chocolate.  But he was also staring at the fingers he had generously buttered, knowing he should make a decision of some kind before indulging.

Jim helped him sort through his thoughts, choose the right ones and put them in order.  “You figure that you should clean that hand, so that you don’t forget about it and leave a big stain on the comforter.”

“Yes,” Spock said.

Jim reached across the mattress, slipped his fingers under his bondmate’s ass and gave him a gentle squeeze.

“You could try buttering me by buttering yourself,” Jim smiled.  “If you get my drift.”

Spock got it.  He moved his greased hand between his legs and began to work the cream into his skin.  It made wonderful viewing.  But Jim was kind of done with looking, with being passive, being bottom.  He was Captain, after all.

So he picked up the sugar tongs, but didn’t use them as grips.  He pushed the feet into the middle of the last square of chocolate, which had softened in the heat, and cut it in half.  He pinched the smaller portion between his fingers and pressed those fingers against Spock’s lips.

“Eat,” he ordered.

Cultural aversion to being fed by hand?  Never heard of it.  Spock devoured the food and the holder; Jim felt molars grind a little too energetically on his thumb.  But five more grams of chocolate tipped the balance between them.  Eventually Spock’s eyes became glassy, and his jaw relaxed.  Jim got his hand back, dried it with a tissue.

“Alright, beautiful,” he said, “let’s get your back passage ready for company.”

Spock’s only response was a tuneless hum.  The bond had become a fuzzy kind of connection; literally, Jim perceived warmth and a feeling like fur tickling his nose.  Was Spock imagining tribbles?  Maybe.  At any rate, those drunken dreams were very absorbing.  The hand Spock had been working between his own legs now lay motionless; there was butter all around his entrance but not where it was most needed.  Jim picked up the limp wrist and used it to pull his husband off his back.

“C’mon, _adun,_ those cheeks need to be facing me.”

But Spock was a little too blissed out to be speedy.  He rolled over and landed somewhere between his side and his stomach. His arms and legs stirred the way a baby might move in sleep.  Jim left him to paddle his way into the right position while he opened the bottle of lube and mounded one palm with gel.  He worked it into his hands until it was warm.  Then he brought the bottle with him and crawled over the mattress, pressed up against Spock's left hip. He pushed the tip of a single, slicked finger between his husband's buttocks and up against the puckered entrance to his ass.

Spock sighed when he went inside.  Anal winking seemed to be a non-issue for Vulcans; his bondmate liked to be fingered, but opened pretty easily and didn’t need much attention.  When Jim crooked the tip of that finger and made his first strokes over the swell of Spock’s prostate, the dream underwent a change of perspective.  There had never been tribbles; his husband had been dreaming about nuzzling the back of Jim’s head.  And his brain made a playful word association – head – switching abruptly to an image of Jim’s cock in its proudest expanded state.  Jim chuckled.

“Keep that picture in mind, _ashayam._   You’ll be feeling more than seeing.”

When a second finger entered him, Spock mewled, “Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim …,” and pushed against the contact.  The bond shared the nervy sweetspot sensations that were coming from the massage and they made Jim’s cock weep.

With two fingers it was possible to trace around the prostate as well as over.  That, if Jim got the glide just right, would shoot a thrill that ran the length of the pudendal nerve and Spock’s hips would jump involuntarily. 

“Fug!” the half Vulcan blurted out.

The pillows were lying on either side of Spock’s face, probably muffling his voice.

“What did you say _?”_ Jim asked.

“… fug …”

“Fug?”

Jim got the glide just right again.  He could do this maybe twice more before he ran the risk of losing control.

Spock, head askew, panting and grinning, said it again.  “Aw … fug.  Jim.  Fug … me.”

Oh man ….   Jim slapped the buttocks that quivered under him.

 _“_ Ha!  _Right –_ fug.  Of course,” he bit his lip but the laughter shook him anyway.  He withdrew his fingers a second, rimmed Spock until he recovered some composure.

“ _Adun,_ I am going to fug you.  Fug you and mark you and feed you more chocolate so you can continue to challenge me with your drunk pronunciation of Standard.”

Spock grunted, worked his elbows and knees against the comforter and got enough purchase to hoist his ass a little higher.

“Jim …,”

“Nearly there,” Jim soothed him.  “Let me just feel inside you one more time, hey?  To be sure.”

Spock grumbled, said something so incomprehensible Jim decided it must be slurred Vulcan.   He chose to reply in a tactile way, squeezing more lube onto his hand and giving Spock three slick, wriggling reasons to make some happier sounds.


	12. Beautiful Music Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow - some chapters just write themselves. I didn't expect to have anything ready before Boxing Day, but this is great because I can wish all readers a great holiday season and thank you for the hits, comments and kudos that have just blown me away. The best gift any writer could receive.

Three fingers worked wonders.  Spock sang out with his nose flattened against the mattress, his hands fisting and twisting the pillows.  It was improvised music.  Jim recognised the Vulcan word _rom,_ meaning good, which he would because (credit where credit was due) Spock said it often whenever his Captain took charge of their lovemaking.

The bond became a mixed blessing.  It was amazing, on the one hand, to feel how Spock felt, like he was floating, weighing no more than his nervous system, a circuit alive with shivers and thrills.  They were sensations a Vulcan could enjoy much longer than a human.  Jim tried to hang on, used techniques Spock had taught him to still a portion of his mind and stay there, to distance himself from the excitement.

It helped to have a diversion, like deciding where his body needed to be next.  Jim withdrew his fingers long enough to straddle his bondmate and cover Spock’s heated thighs with his own.  The feeling of his own weeping cock finding its way between two slick ass cheeks meant Jim needed to stop a few seconds to reinforce his control.  

Meanwhile Spock was stretching his back, rolling his hips like they were doing it already.  The bond suggested he had enough memories, laser sharp memories, to make a convincing facsimile by himself.

“We’ll see about that,” Jim said.

He sat back and gave his lover a slap across the rump, hard enough to leave an imprint.  Spock stopped moving.

“Ah --,” the sound his First Officer made sounded like relief.  “Ah--,”

“You were getting ahead of things,” Jim told him.

“Ah—gain,” Spock blurted out.

“Again?”

The second mark came up darker than the first and got a better response.  Spock cooed.  Jim smiled.  He used both hands to beat a tattoo, sucked in a breath because the way those cheeks quivered was simply dizzying.

“Again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again …,” Jim chanted in time with his own beat until Spock started to giggle. 

That sound was worth a thousand smiles.  And it was worth a thousand giggles when Jim grabbed and parted those shaking buttocks and pushed himself inside.  It was the human’s turn to cause the Vulcan some sensory overload.  Jim’s bondmate could not make up his mind whether to laugh or moan and after a few mistimed breaths Spock gave himself hiccups.

That became the accompaniment to their lazy dog fuck.  Jim eased himself forward until his chest rested against Spock’s shoulder blades, and his right hand crawled under Spock’s armpit in search of Vulcan fingers.  When he found them, he squeezed tight and started thrusting.

A sober Spock would have been keeping count.  Amusement travelled across the bond, and being so close to one pointed ear, Jim decided to see how long he could manage.

“That was three, yeah?” he breathed into Spock’s neck.  “Four … five …,”

Spock was open mouthed.  The mattress was wet with his saliva and tears of laughter.

“… six …,”

Jim could feel that slow rise, a needle climbing the pressure gauge.  His lips moved, but only in his mind did he say _seven._

“…svun,” Spock slurred.

Eight hit him with that telltale ache.  Jim held still a few seconds.

“We’re close …, _ashayam_ ,” he panted, “close…,”

Each time Spock hiccupped, the tip of Jim’s nose bumped the back of his First Officer’s neck and an unexpected tingle went down both their cocks.

“Need to do this early,” Jim said.  He bared his teeth, locked on the slope of Spock shoulder and bit down harder than he ever would have imagined he could do, until he learned what a big turn-on it was for Vulcans.  He tasted a little blood.

Spock caterwauled, yelled “Ha!!” and made thrusts nine, ten and eleven happen himself.  The climbing needle entered the danger zone  -- Jim found he could not unlock his own jaw to call out numbers.  Thrust number thirteen almost blew him away.  Then it was Spock’s turn to pause.

And suddenly the bond filled with music.  This was a rare thing, but it happened enough for Jim to start recognising the different parts played by the instruments, and know when they made their entrances and exits.  It was a piece Spock composed himself to express his gratitude on the day their psionic link was forged.  It said something for the depth of feeling it conveyed, that it could broadcast perfectly when the composer himself was unable to speak in sentences.

And it was the best song to come by.  Jim let go of Spock’s neck, hoped he would like the bite mark when he got to see it.  Then he took a long breath and canted his hips back.

He made it to twenty-one.


	13. The Moment of Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wishing all my readers the best possible New Year.

And after that?

There was some down time.  Jim listened to his own breathing and pulse as they calmed down.  Since his mouth was open anyway he treated Spock’s back like a taster sample, placing a kiss here, a tongue tip lick someplace else.  He tried, for the umpteenth time, to find words that would describe the taste.  The only observation he felt confident to make was that the flavour seemed different if Spock had consumed chocolate.

Jim could doze off like this.  The sensation of his finished, soft cock slipping out into comparatively cooler air would wake him.  And Spock, being stronger, would not be the least uncomfortable supporting the full weight of a human.  But the bond told Jim that his mate was demonstrating another of his many superior physical capabilities.

Jim patted the hand he was still holding.

“One more for you, then?”

Spock agreed by starting to turn over.

“Okay, okay,” Jim said, “let me just --,”

But Spock heaved onto his side and dumped his human lover onto the mattress behind him.

“Right,” Jim said, laughing.  “I think that message should be translated -- ‘hurry up, _adun,_ because I need a hand job.”

“Whaa …?” Spock’s blurry response.

“I can do better than that.  Hold on.”

Jim got up, walked round to the bedside table and found the remote control.  Switching its setting to deflate, he strode into Spock’s ensuite.  He removed the Orion _dakkii_ under the shower, turned the sonics dial to sterilise and cleaned the sheath thoroughly. 

“Jiiiiimm …,” he heard the complaint out loud and through the bond. 

“Worth the wait,” Jim called back.  “Promise.”

Spock constrained himself to silent fretting while Jim stepped out of the shower, returned to the bed.  There would be more complaints if he took time to inject fresh lubricant into the _dakkii_ and fill the hundreds of micro pockets.  Instead he hunted for and captured their tube of gel and sat down on the mattress.

“Oh man,” Jim murmured in admiration.

An erect Vulcan _lok_ was a beautiful sight. Once, Jim was tempted to measure the one he had the privilege of seeing until Spock, ever the statistician, read his thoughts and informed him telepathically: two hundred and twenty-two millimetres long and sixty-one millimetres in diameter at its widest point.  On the underside hard tissue ran in a line from base to tip, and came up as ridges under pressure of blood. 

Jim fingered lube along those ridges first.

“Aaaahh …,”

Spock rolled onto his back and kept that open mouthed admission of pleasure going until his entire cock was slippery and gleaming in light from the lamp Jim switched on when he left the bed, because the room had become too dark.

“Now feel this,” Jim said.

He slipped the _dakkii_ over the blue-green head of that _lok_ and worked the sheath down gently.  Or maybe not so gently -- a couple of times the shaft responded to his touch with a twitch.  Jim cleaned his hands with a tissue and then (smiling to himself) leaned towards the bedside table and snatched the tiny remote. 

He chose one of three buttons on the panel, and a faint buzz confirmed the vibrator was working. 

Spock curled his arms over his head; the fingers on his hands opened and clasped repeatedly while he sang nonsense in a sweet, squeaky voice.

“It has a number of interesting massage variations,” Jim settled himself on the mattress, cuddled close so he could whisper this information into Spock’s left ear.  Of course, the words did not register.  Spock turned unfocussed eyes in the direction of his voice, but the bond was a soupy melange of things already said and flickers of warm colour, fizzy with a current of pleasure.

It was Jim’s turn to read the physiological signals carefully.  He set the remote on Spock’s chest and added a regular pulse to the vibrations, which moved gradually up and down the length of the _dakkii._ Spikes of arousal appeared in their shared mental current, keeping to the same intervals and they seemed to bank up.  A good foundation.

But he wasn’t going to let a toy do all the work.  Adjusting himself on the mattress, Jim got his mouth against one of Spock’s nipples and pulled the nib with his incisors.  The bond registered a whiplash of intense sensation that spun round and down Spock’s right leg, spread his toes apart.

“Other one?” Jim asked.

He didn’t wait for a response.  Spock, as best Jim could tell, was speaking Vulcan, the words clear as mud but the cadence and rhythm distinctly poetic.  Jim dragged teeth back and forth over Spock’s chest to stimulate both nipples as much as possible.  And he was curious.  Was he hearing Vulcan verse or something Terran in translation?  Spock had recently been making himself familiar with early twenty-first century Amercian poets, and discovered D.A. Powell.

Commendable as all this was, the point of Jim’s exertions was to blow out his bondmate’s senses and leave him with no capacity for speech of any kind.  He checked the remote again.

“We could speed things up.”

Pulses beating twice as fast made a difference.  Spock could only say a word or two before a shot from the _dakkii_ scrambled his mental circuits.  He repeated himself, calling out the same thing louder and louder.  Jim finally deciphered what had been mumble.

“ _t’sasahr lik’rt, t’sasahr lik’rt, t’sasahr lik’rt --.”_

The moment of flight.

Ah, Jim thought, how the brain works when it isn’t working.

“We’ve got your warp coils primed, Mr. Spock,” he said, “We’ll do some last minute checks, and then I think we’re ready for take-off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Spock is reciting, translated into Vulcan, is "Chronic" by D.A. Powell. You can read the full poem here --
> 
> https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/54615/chronic


	14. Room Service

“Oh man …,”

There was an ecstasy only coffee could provide.

Jim thought he knew it and knew it well, until the next morning.  That’s when he decided to try the Quiet Cove Supreme Blend: nonreplicated, aeropressed coffee, the beans for which were laser roasted and ground in the hotel’s kitchen as soon as the computer placed his order.  The finished cup was beamed – _beamed_ – to the room service transporter platform inside their suite, a clear silicon extension to their breakfast bar.

Jim took a photograph of it with his PADD.  He captioned the image, “Enterprise needs this” and sent the picture to Scotty.

Meanwhile his bare feet appreciated a sunshine heated floor.  Night filters on all windows were disengaged and light streamed in through the French doors which opened out onto a balcony.  The chronometer on Jim’s PADD said they had both slept late by ship’s reckoning -- later still by local time.  He sipped his coffee and leaned a shoulder against the warm glass, watched the monorail trains come and go.

It was a stance which also allowed him to keep half an eye down the hallway.

What time did he finally decide the heat was too much, and leave Spock’s room to finish sleeping in his own bed?  After a couple of seconds Jim shook his head -- no idea.  All he could recall was that it had been too dark to bother hunting for his discarded dressing gown. 

Eventually Spock emerged.  Jim had just drained his cup with a sigh of satisfaction and his thoughts were turning to the room service breakfast menu.

“Hey,” he said softly.

In his mind Jim thanked every mythical deity in the Alpha Quadrant that Bones wouldn’t be stopping by for at least another five hours.  It was safe to presume that Spock had not seen himself in a mirror, perhaps not best prepared for seeing at all, judging by how puffy he looked around the eyes.

Jim left the French doors, put his cup down on the breakfast bar and met Spock halfway.

“Dressing gown looks familiar,” he said as he reached up and tried to comb the kinks out of Spock’s hair.  They would not be subdued.

“Did you use the hypo I put in the equipment case?” he asked.

Spock nodded.

“Good.  Why don’t we order you some tea?”

Jim turned back to the breakfast bar.

“What have they got … Jasmine, Andorian Resin, Red Medley – no, hang on, that has cinnamon.  There’s hydroponic Pouchong, and ah!  Look – Theris Masu.”

After a few seconds Jim received a soft kiss on the back of his neck, and the first vibrations through their bond.

_Thank you, adun._

Jim angled himself so he could keep reading the room service menu and wrap one arm around Spock’s waist to pull him close.

“How much do you remember?” he asked.

The door between their minds had been replaced.  Well, almost replaced – more like leaning against the frame on Spock’s side, waiting to be put on its hinges.  Memories passed through looking like shards broken from a mirror, each holding a different, incomplete reflection.  Jim watched them a while, and rubbed Spock’s back.

“You loved the _dakkii_ ,” he said, when he spotted a relevant image.  “Made me clean and fit it twice.”

Spock pursed his lips, but not for long.  That was good.  Jim remembered how difficult it used to be for his First Officer to accept his own desire.

A sudden, warm breeze came through the bond, and Spock leaned forward to burrow into Jim’s hair with his nose.   Jim chuckled.

“Now don’t you try and distract me.  Every time Doctor McCoy nags me about my figure he talks about yours.  You, Mr. Spock, are currently seven point six seven kilos under your ideal weight, and he – oh, damn!!  Damn it.”

Spock caught the realisation that had just invaded his head and his good mood, connected to the last instructions he received from the Chief Medical Officer.

“I forgot the bottle of arnica oil,” Jim grumbled.  “I was supposed to massage that into your leg -- it helps the bruises fade.”

Spock failed to sympathise.  In his thoughts he was too busy being pleased with his ability to distract.

“Yes, okay, _fine,_ ” Jim said, “but you need to eat.  Bones had you on a drip in Med Bay, but how long was that?”

He scrolled through the room service breakfast menu, hoping he might find one of those rare culinary items that would interest his bondmate.  The hotel had some Vulcan cuisine, but he skipped that section.  That was food for work, not shore leave.

“Oh yes, here we are.”

Jim made his choice and asked the computer to enlarge the photograph.

“Remember _fuwa fuwa_?”

Bullseye.  Spock lifted his head to study the gallery of plates with their airy pancake towers.

“They make the original Japanese _and_ Denobulan versions.”

Through the bond he could hear Spock reading through the list of toppings, looking for whipped red bean paste.

“There,” Jim pointed.

But he wasn’t quick enough.  Spock had noted and stored the item in short term memory.  He was now selecting from the sauce and fresh fruit options.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuwa Fuwa - Japanese for "fluffy" and currently the corporate name for a chain of restaurants serving Japanese style souffle pancakes. I have not tried them myself but they look amazing. Link below is for Fuwa Fuwa in Bloomsbury, London.
> 
> https://www.tripadvisor.co.uk/Restaurant_Review-g186338-d14085695-Reviews-FuwaFuwa_London-London_England.html


	15. Caught in an Avalanche of Bedding

On Yorktown weather could be ordered, or bought on subscription.  There were options that could not be produced on a planet.  Every two hours, the area around the hotel in Quiet Cove received a fine mist that came to ground briefly.  It contained additional oxygen and a grassy, cool scent.  Marlyrene, who supervised the front desk, urged Jim to find a seat somewhere in the open air lounge, because the next ‘refreshment’ was due in four minutes.

“It’s a stimulating experience,” she said.  “Great if you need a pick-me-up.  People rub the moisture into their hands and faces – leaves the skin clean and soft.”

“Wow,” Jim said.  “I’ll be so busy, I might miss my visitor.”

“What’s his name, sir?”

“McCoy.  Doctor Leonard McCoy.”

“If you can upload a photograph to the entrance scanners, it will alert our team on the doors and they’ll make sure Doctor McCoy knows where to find you.”

Marlyrene gave him an eye mask and pointed in the direction he should start walking.

And it was … interesting.  Made him see the colour green on the inside of the eye mask and opened his sinuses.  Music played through the headrest of the chair he had chosen – there was no preamble but he could hear Argellian cymbals striking the same rhythm as the cello.  Now, wasn’t it the final movement of L’Emestro’s Quadrants Symphony that used Argellian cymbals?

There was supposed to be a signal broadcast to the chairs, so that everyone outside would know when to remove their masks.  Without the distraction of sight, conversations seemed to become more audible, though everyone spoke more quietly.  He heard someone insist that you could not come to the Cove and not try walking on the water.  Further away to his left he recognised Andorian words, spoken by at least four different voices.  And behind him what sounded like two human females, talking about the Perrin ballroom being smaller than the Gloucester but having the view of York River Seven, and wouldn’t that make the wedding more memorable?

Jim figured Spock would want a Vulcan ceremony, though not necessarily on Vulcan.  Maybe another desert mountain – lately his mind kept returning to a place Uhura once described to him, the Eilat Benjamin in the Negev Desert.  They held torch lit marriages at sunset on an elevated plateau, and the reception took place inside an expansive and richly decorated Bedouin tent.  Their caterers could offer Vulcan cuisine.

Jim grinned.  He just had a vision of Spock asking the hotel wedding planner if they could serve _fuwa fuwa_ with whipped red bean paste and nashi pear.

“What the hell is so funny?”

“Bones --,”

“I’d say you were providing more amusement to those around you.  How long were you planning to remain sightless?”

Jim could hear the chuckle in McCoy’s voice.  He lifted the mask off one eye and looked around.

“When did the signal broadcast?” Jim asked.

“Ages ago.  They held me back inside the hotel, thank god.  Couldn’t see the appeal.”

Jim pulled off his blindfold and sure enough, he appeared to be the last person who needed to.

“Huh,” he said.

“I gather Spock didn’t want to experience this … _fascinating_ phenomenon?” Len asked.

“Spock is taking a nap,” Jim replied.

“Beg your pardon?”

Jim stood out of his chair and gave the doctor a 'now, now' sort of look.

“I’m sorry, Jim, but I could have sworn you just told me Spock was taking a nap.” 

“Bones …,”

“Now what exactly do you mean by ‘nap’?”

“What do I mean by --,”

McCoy interrupted.  “Do you mean ‘nap’ as in Spock’s usual practice of getting less than half the amount of sleep he requires in any given twenty-four hour cycle--,”

Jim interrupted back.  “I mean ‘nap’ as in Spock had a full nine hours sleep overnight but finds that he requires a little more.”

McCoy shook his head.  “He’s never done that.”

“He’s done it now.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Then I’d better show you the way.”

Bones interrogated him while they walked to the lobby transporter.  Was Spock okay otherwise?  Was he running a temperature or experiencing any pain?  The doctor was not satisfied until Jim described just how much food their First Officer consumed as breakfast.

“Three plates of them?”

“Yeah, but you know those pancakes are mostly air,” Jim said.

McCoy was pondering that as the transporter broke up their molecules and reassembled them outside the entrance to the suite.  Jim held out his hand so the scanner could read the subcut implant.

“Quiet now,” he warned his guest, “so we don’t wake him.”

McCoy rolled his eyes.

Before he’d left, Jim dimmed all the lights to fifteen percent.  A hint of coffee lingered in the air; he heard the doctor softly inhale the scent and sigh.  The big, black sofa in the lounge creaked as it rocked on its frame, obeying its programme to tilt five degrees in either direction at a rate of eighteen repetitions per minute.

Jim led the doctor all the way round to the front of that sofa, where Spock was stretched out.  The heaped comforters from both beds plus two pillows made the half Vulcan look like he’d been caught in the path of a bedding avalanche.  The only part of him not covered were his eyebrows.

The doctor stared with his mouth open.

“Well I’ll be a --,”

“Shhh …,” Jim hushed him, and gestured towards the kitchen.  The two of them tiptoed out, and spent a couple of hours on the other side of the French doors, leaning on the balcony railing.  In exchange for a cup of Quiet Cove Supreme Blend, the doctor filled him in on how the rest of the bridge crew spent their first night on shore leave.

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers, you incredibly passionate fans of Spirk, you made me feel so welcomed! I'm glad you enjoyed my first story in this fandom.  
> I do not have an idea for a new story yet, but I seem to feel that way every time I finish a fiction. Bet you anything I will wake up in the middle of the night with an inspiration, because that is how you got "Quality Time in Quiet Cove".


End file.
